Deal
by xXNorwegianAssassinXx
Summary: You're the best at what you do, but somehow, she caught you.


The air reeks of wet cement as you slink through the shadowed alleyway, a panther on a hunt, blending seamlessly with your surroundings as you soundlessly making your way around a pile of trash and closer to the unlocked window. You left it open earlier, saving yourself the irritation of having to break in and deal with that nuisance of an alarm system. Thank God for that.

With deft fingers, you lift the window enough to slip inside; the hinges creak faintly in protest, but it's not enough to give you away. You keep it cracked for a quick exit, knowing that if things take a turn for the worst, the best thing you can do is have an easy out.

Once inside, you flank the walls of the building, the cool cement seeping through your thin shirt. The hair on the back of your neck stands and you feel the shock down your spine, a rush of adrenaline rather than a chill. Even though the room is engulfed in blackness, you go out of your way to avoid the ever-watching gaze of the cameras, lest they have night vision. You're sure they don't, but you can never be too careful; it wouldn't be the first time you've underestimated your opponent.

But you're not afraid you'll be caught switching the paintings. In fact, you're more worried that these paintings won't go to good homes; that they'll go to someone who won't appreciate them _nearly_ as much as you do.

Several corners later, you make it to the room with the desired piece of art. It's on the far wall and unfortunately under the constant stare of a camera.

You make a face. Of course, had it been anyone other than you, this job would have been close to impossible.

You sidle along the wall until you're directly under the camera and remove a cellphone from your back pocket. It's preloaded with the software to do almost anything to these cameras, from looping to uploading a virus to destroy the entire surveillance system. Obviously, there's no need to completely shut down the place, as it would draw attention to your activities in the future, but it's never bad to have an 'extreme measures' backup plan.

You feel at the side of the camera until your glove runs over a depression in the plastic and hook up a cable from your phone to the camera. You hit a few buttons on your phone, and the clock begins. It's set to loop for several minute, much longer than you need to make the switch and get out.

A quick scan proves the room otherwise empty of any other alarms or cameras, and you strut noiselessly to your prize. With a smug smile, you think to yourself, _too easy. _

The switch is nothing short of faultless. With your own hands, you had created a near perfect copy, leaving the smallest of details to show it was, in fact, a reproduction. This way, if you ever saw the pieces in their homes, you could take some satisfaction in knowing it's your own work.

This painting is of a nearly naked woman in a room full of mirrors. Her head is buried in her hands, and all the mirrors are empty aside from the one directly behind her. Her shoulders have fallen and she looks to be crying but the reflection in the mirror behind her is pounding on the glass, begging to be heard or noticed, but remains ignored.

You think it's a beautiful portrayal of isolation, how easy it is to shut everyone else out, including one's self.

You gently roll the painting after replacing it with its copy, enough to slide it carefully into the tube without creasing or wrinkling it, and sling the tube back over your shoulders. With a quick twist to check if it's stable and won't slip during your escape, you head back towards your exit. This is routine but that doesn't stop you from celebrating with a quick fist in the air.

The soundless room is interrupted by someone clearing their throat.

"I'm not sure if I'm more surprised I was right, or that it really is you," the voice is calm and clear and strangely nonchalant for someone watching a robbery take place.

You turn to face your uninvited company, returning your arm to your side, and glare at the woman across the room. You're not sure how you missed her, how you let yourself be this sloppy. You curse in your head.

The silence encourages her to continue. "If you're wondering how I knew, I was watching you when you visited earlier. You spent a little too much time looking up into the corners of the rooms than anyone here to enjoy the art. So tell me, why do swap them out?"

You remain still and scoff at her ignorance, but then you remember it's not her fault. The world could never appreciate art the way you do, so why would she be any different?

At your silence, she speaks, "If you don't want to talk, I could always call the police…" A phone lights up just below her chin, ready to make the call and showing off the sharp features of her face. She seems to know she has you cornered, watching you like a viper ready to strike.

"Safe-keeping," your voice sounds strangled, like someone has a hand wrapped around your throat. "People don't treat them the way they should, so I give them something else for decoration." You instantly berate yourself; this is too much information to give a stranger who's slowly tying a noose around your neck.

The hint of a smile ghosts her lips before the light of the phone is consumed by darkness. "Where do you put them, then?"

You grit your teeth. There's no way someone like _her_ is getting all this information so easily. "Why does it matter?"

She hums in indifference and you imagine her facial expression as she considers your answer, something akin to a python watching the life squeezed out of its prey. You shift uneasily, feeling her unyielding gaze on you even though you cannot see it. "Then why bother taking them if they're not going to be admired properly? What use do they have if not that?"

"Use?" You're teeth clamp down on your tongue for a second, a reminder to keep as hushed as possible. There are still cameras in other rooms. "Art is its own use, its own purpose. Art is expression and it can tell stories far better than everyone I've ever spoken to."

"You hang it in a house and therefore use it as decoration," you hear her clothing rustle as she shifts. "Art is sold and used for a paycheck."

You let a breath out through your nose. "You're wrong. If it's used solely for a paycheck, why do people buy it? If nothing more than a commodity, what is making it worth the cash?"

"Ignorance," you imagine her shrugging. "People aren't as smart as they make themselves out to be. Half the stuff that gets passed for art these days is nothing close to that, yet they hang it on their walls. It's an easy business, really."

You swallow thickly, the words you want to say are heavy and sour on your tongue, but this isn't the place. Time is running out. "No. They don't know what their looking at and neither do you." You've had enough of her and, if you leave quickly, you can get home by the time the cops arrive; besides, she doesn't know who you are behind the mask.

You take a step towards the door, and she speaks up. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. I'm rather sure your father wouldn't appreciate his daughter taking a trip to prison."

It seems rather ominous the way she worded it, like she knows more than she should, but you keep towards the exit. "I'll be home before they arrive."

"Anastasia."

That name. Your given name, your birth name, the name you've rejected for something smaller, neater. You freeze where you stand, your spine suddenly replaced with a metal pole and your fingers turned to ice. She knows.

"Ah, I see I finally have your attention. Good," the room is still black, but you can _hear _her smile, the cunning twist of her lips through her voice. "See, this wasn't the only reason I stopped by tonight. You have something I want, something I can use. An inside edge, if you will," she pauses and it seems to drag on forever, coagulated blood leaking from a wound of the dead.

The ice moves in your stomach, pulling at your insides as everything frosts over. You're stuck, frozen in place, and she's the one behind it. She's about to tell you something you don't want to hear. You know it.

Finally, she speaks, "I'll make you a deal. In exchange for not calling the police, we become partners. I'll pay you for every piece you switch out and I'll sell the originals to the highest bidders. Sound fair?"

This woman is all business and she stands for everything you are against. Her morals are disgusting. "Selling off the original is exactly what I'm trying to _prevent. _How the hell is this deal benefiting both of us?"

You can hear her smirk. "You won't have to take a trip to prison. Besides, I'm sure you aren't after every single piece. I'll even throw in a bonus. You can continue saving the special pieces for yourself and I will decide which pieces are worth putting on the black market."

She lets the idea settle in your head for a moment. "So, what do you say?"

Your hands ball up into fists, the leather of your gloves squeaking softly as they rub against themselves. This deal isn't to your benefit, though you're not sure she knows that. Money is not an issue; it never was. But she's left you no choice, manipulated you from the first moment she saw you, if what she's telling you is correct. She watched you prepare for the heist; she knew she could benefit from your downfall, so she watched you approach the edge before giving you a push.

You hear the sharp clicking of her heels echoing about the hollow room as she makes her way over to you, and you have to resist the urge to wince with each step she takes. She stops just before you and a pale hand extends your way.

You look to her face, finally within proximity to see her expression. She wears a smile; it's kind to the average onlooker, but the corner of her mouth is up just a little too high and it shows how smug she is. It makes you burn.

With angry eyes and a set jaw, you grab that offered hand and swear to take that look clean off her face.


End file.
